


Oak & Ash & Thorn

by the13colonies



Category: Historical RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Class Issues, Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Hand Jobs, basically this is just class angst, george washington is like 19 in this, gist is like in his 40s?, i have no idea the age gap is big, this was my broke/woke tumblr post
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:26:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26708200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the13colonies/pseuds/the13colonies
Summary: Sent on a mission to deliver a letter on Governor Dinwiddie’s orders, George Washington finds himself disappointed with the answer that the French had given him in a reply. The foreign nation would not leave the Ohio country or their outposts, and Washington had only months to return to Virginia before the spring would arrive, beckoning the call of war between Britain and France.Stuck on the frontier and forced to travel on foot through winding trails, with his guide and assistant Christopher Gist, Washington makes his way back to Virginia in the freezing cold. Soon, they find themselves unable to keep warm in the miserable dead of night crossing the Allegheny River.They both understand the situation is dire. Washington only wants to prove his worth to the Governor and return to Virginia as fast as possible. However, Gist has other plans.
Relationships: George Washington/Christopher Gist
Kudos: 8





	Oak & Ash & Thorn

**Author's Note:**

> hahaha follow my tumblr @the13colonies 
> 
> this is a crack ship I did for my followers and is WAY too late

* * *

"Oh do not tell the priest our plight,

Or he would call it a sin,

But we've been out in the woods all night,

Conjuring summer in."

-[Oak & Ash & Thorn, Peter Bellamy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4GT59EqPlUQ)

* * *

_December, 1753_

George Washington scowled at the river, the ice floating down the middle of the wide channel, grinding against the riverbank by the trees on both ends. The river was rushing down southward, making the ice thin and brittle. Large sheets of the frozen water hit each other and shattered as it continued to float downstream, and the reflection of the setting sun illuminated them impossibly brighter than that of noon daylight. 

His knees were beginning to ache from staying on the ground, crouching behind the brush of the riverbank. 

“This the closest we can get?” Gist, on George’s right, asked as he poked the nearest ice sheet with a branch; it fell away into the tide, joining the others in a seemingly endless stream. 

“It appears so.” He sighed and looked to his newfound friend. “We can perhaps float across.” 

“Is that wise? In this weather?” 

“Would you prefer to swim?” George couldn’t help but snap. “There is no way we make it across without a raft. We would risk being swept away by the current, or worse, die before we reach the other side.” 

“Rafting would not help the situation.” Gist spit to the side, watching it fly towards the river, landing in the black. “We would be swept away faster.” 

“I have yet to hear an idea from you.”   
  
George kept his eye trained on the bank of the island in front of him, more towards the far shore of the bank rather than in the middle of the rushing river. It would be quite the attempt, if they were to float across. The water was ripping hard, almost like it had been tearing through parchment. It would occasionally splash up at the pair, getting drips of ice water on their matchcoats. George was quite fond of his red, authentic matchcoat, given as a gift from Gist. He had assured George that it would make him blend in more easily with the Natives in the area. 

Less of an enemy in the Ohio country. What a contradiction that had been. 

The letter as the official French reply weighed heavy in his satchel, now on the frozen solid ground. The pack was beginning to dig into his shoulder, so he had set it down with a satisfying flop. He saw Gist look at him from the corner of his eye. 

“Do you young men ever learn?” He grumbled, spitting again into the river, throwing his head aside so that the fluid coming from his mouth would not get caught in his dark hair pressed down under his hat. 

“I suppose we do not.” George looked at the shore across the river one last time, examining the treeline on the small island for a safe spot to land a raft. Finally spotting one, George raised from his crouching position, and held out his hand. 

“Give me the hatchet.” 

Gist hesitated in his action, but opened his own satchel under his matchcoat and handed the tool to George anyway. Gist, though his senior, was not the higher ranking member between their two man party; George was, and at the rank of Major, his age seemed to matter little. 

George settled near a fallen tree about sixty feet away from the bank, beginning to use his hatchet and attempt to cut the wood into sizable logs so that the raft could fit the both of them. Gist stood, watching him do the work, head turned to the side. 

George knew that he had an extra hatchet within the satchel, and the fact that the older man was not helping him made it all the worse, piled on top of the cold. 

“Are you just going to stand there?” He asked, splitting the wood as he hacked down at it harder with his hatchet. He really should have brought the axe; it would have made this endeavor pass in half the time. 

“You know you cannot order me around. I am not one of your little soldier boys.” 

George snapped his head up, quick to retort and feeling his blood boil at the comment, but shut his mouth to see Gist opening up his satchel, rummaging through the belongings to pull out his own hatched, smaller in length. 

He leaned down next to George, and began to hack away at the other side of the fallen log. They connected eyes, but focused on their work after that, attempting to finish before the sun set below the treeline and they could no longer see the shore of the island. 

-

The now finished raft, made from logs and rope, now sat at the edge of the riverbank as George heaved in the cold, dry air around him. Gist had been breathing harder than him, given his age, and he wiped the undue sweat off of his brow before turning him. 

“You _really_ think this is going to work?” He asked, moving the hair away from his face. His hat tilted to the left as he did so. 

“Gist.” George was ready to shove the man into the river if he kept annoying him. “It would be better than swimming across. Do not question me.” 

“I am _not_ one of your little recruits.” Gist shoved his weight off of the tree and got into George’s space, throwing his calloused finger in front of his eyes. “I do _not_ take orders from a child. I will question you if I damn want to. I am here on my own accord, not on orders.” 

George narrowed his eyes at the man, leaning back to move away from Gist. 

“Then _why_ are you still here?” 

“Believe it or not, your death would be quite unfortunate in terms of my own interests.” Gist turned away from George at that, leaving the conversation dead as the younger of the pair looked onward to the setting sun, now below the treeline. 

“Come on, then.” George proposed as he moved to one of the rafts, grabbing the edge. “Help me heave this into the river so we may be able to cross before daylight runs out on us.” 

“Always in a damn rush,” Gist mumbled under his breath, thinking that George couldn’t hear him. Even if he had no sense of acute hearing, he would have seen the cold air turn to small clouds coming out from Gist’s mouth. 

They both grabbed the raft, only large enough to fit the both of them on either side, and slowly dragged it to the edge of the bank. The large ice sheets seemed to have grown in number within the past few hours as they worked gathering wood and building the small transport, gutting each other in a fight like wonder, flowing down the Allegheny River. 

“Christ,” Gist mumbled, his hands slipping from the edge but quickly regaining his position. “This is heavier than I thought.” 

“The heavier, the better, if you ask me. It will be able to carry our weight with little resistance.”

“And then what?” They had managed to finally slip the raft into the river, still holding on to the edge of the logs that had been tied together as tightly as George could weave them. “Will you be the one to grate the pole? My back hasn’t been the best these days.”

George rolled his eyes at the remark instead of replying; Gist had been quite the complainer on this trip, and he had not bothered to hide such a fact. 

“We will both grate the poles.” 

Gist huffed, the cold air coming out of his lungs as such one would imagine a puff of tobacco smoke. 

They heaved more of the raft into the river, gently letting it down over the ice sheets of the bank and watching them float away under the raft’s weight. It began to sink slightly on the far side, but once more of the wood was submerged, it evened out, George breathing a sigh of relief. 

Now, it was only him holding the rope, while Gist held the two thin pieces of wood meant to steer the raft across the current, hopefully reaching the other side of the river in peace. 

“Get on.” George gestured his head towards the now fully submerged pile of logs, and Gist glared. 

“I still do not take orders from you.” 

Gist scrambled to get on the raft, getting on his knees first, and placing his hands on the raft to test the buoyancy. He moved his body slowly onto the middle of the raft while George held it steady, knuckles turning white from bracing the logs against the current. 

Gist stood up, arms far out at his sides to gain balance, leaving the wooden poles on the raft at his feet. Once fully on his feet, he made a motion as if to jump, but only just so that the raft buoyed itself in the water; George would deny later that his gaze was all too focused on the movement of his hair. 

The raft held. 

He breathed out a sigh of relief, his posture immediately relaxing as he leaned slightly back on the logs. The older man turned his head to the setting sun, eyes out of focus to be on an object closely. His hair brushed along his cheekbone, George still tracking the strands with his eyes. 

Gist turned his eyes back to George now, eyes fluttering in confusion on why the younger man had been staring at him. 

_Shit,_ he thought, looking away quickly at something other than the man in front of him. 

“What are you waiting for?” Gist asked, tapping his foot on the raft once to get his attention. “Get on the bloody thing.” 

George had done the same as Gist after tying the rope connecting them to land on a nearby tree; slowly inching on the logs to be sure the ties held, standing up with balance, and then bouncing slightly. 

When the raft continued to hold their combined weight, they both let out a sigh. The easy part had been done; now, they would have to navigate the icy current of the Allegheny, and desperately find a place to set up camp, now that the sun could no longer be seen. 

“Grab one of the poles,” Gist said. “There is only so much daylight left to see how this will hold up. Can’t find ya in the dark.” 

George leaned down to reach for one of the wooden posts, gripping it in his hands. He felt the weight in his hands, trying to get the feel of the wood in his palms before he stabbed it into the water as hard as he could, gaining balance as the post sunk itself into the shallow bank. Reaching back to the rope which held the small raft to the tree. 

George took the knife out of his pocket, slicing through the rope, and quickly turning to grab the pole before the raft began to slide off the bank, now fully making its way down stream. 

It wasn’t so bad at first. Both Gist and George held firm with their poles, eventually finding a way to navigate quickly. They were still going downstream, towards the south bend of the river, but it was more at a slanted angle, still being able to roll forward through the current at a reasonable pace. The expanse of land seemed closer and closer with every stroke of the posts in the water. 

George’s arms were beginning to strain under his clothes about halfway to the other side of the bank, still littered with ice, much as where they had come from. He began pushing the pole in the water a little harder, a little more forceful, a little more faster than Gist was. The current was still the same, the amount of ice rolling down the stream unchanging, but George was starting to tire himself on balance and use of force with the wooden post within his palms. 

“Slow down, boy.” Gist muttered in front of him, more to the man himself rather than to George directly. 

Suddenly, all he could see was darkness. 

Then, the cold set in. 

George’s brain couldn’t comprehend what just happened to him. He could have sworn that he was on the raft; yes, he was crossing the river on the wooden raft that he had made with Gist. He is absolutely sure that is what he was doing beforehand. But now, everything seemed black around him, and cold enveloped him in such a way that George almost welcomed it. 

He didn’t regard anything else. Just cold. 

He tried to breathe, but instead of the air that he expected in his lungs, ice cold water started to fill his mouth. George immediately stopped trying to breathe, lungs now straining due to lack of air. He moved his arms, upward, and then light was in his eyes. 

Many things came to George at once. The first, and foremost, was that he was in the river. He must have fallen, somehow. Perhaps George was distracted, or an ice sheet had knocked him over; whatever it had been, he knew that he was now submerged in the cold water. The second, was the fact that if he did not get out of the water soon, he would most certainly freeze to death within a few minutes. Considering that he is still breathing, and noticed the water in his mouth nearly right away, George couldn’t have been in the water too long. If he tried to move his limbs, they would surely still work. 

The third, and final, thing he noticed was the fact that Gist was screaming his name, on the raft, ten feet or so in front of him. The older man’s voice was surely cracking, but the water in George’s ears were muffling the sound, and it made hearing Gist much harder than it should have been. 

To George, even though it felt as if his body was being stabbed by a thousand spears, everything felt slow and unimportant. If he let his head slip below the water, then it would all be over. The sweet darkness seemed almost comforting in the moment to him. 

“You bloody idiot! Get back on the raft!” 

Gist’s voice sounded clearer now, and that snapped George back to the reality of the situation. He was drowning in the ice water that was the Allegheny River; every second that dragged through time, the closer George was to death. 

He wouldn’t. Couldn’t. He had to get back on to that damn raft. 

George heaved himself another push forward, dragging himself through the rough current and flailing his arms in the direction of the logs that Gist was currently attempting to keep still. The pole that was in his hands could be seen stuck in the river, Gist’s knuckles becoming white against the force. The raft was still, for now, but George needed to swim faster if the raft was to not float down the current. 

He gasps, finally feeling the edges of the logs under his fingers, barely scraping his fingernails. George pushed himself forward one last time, kicking his legs harder, and then he felt the logs hit the center of his chest. His arms gripped the edge of the raft, and he pulled his weight onto the raft, grunting at the force. 

His body was now out of the water, his chest laying down flat on his side of the raft. 

“I swear to _God_ ,” Gist groaned, throwing George’s wooden pole back at him, “Do something like that again, you fucking ass, and I will not bother to stop the raft and swim to safety.” 

George held himself on his hands and knees, suddenly sputtering water onto the center of the raft, finally being able to breathe properly. His stomach aches with the water he must have swallowed, leaving behind an ironically dry taste in his mouth. 

He flew his body sharply to the right and threw up the contents in his stomach into the river. 

“Oh, Christ.” Gist shook his head out of the corner of George’s eyes. 

“You would have not had me drown,” He said, after clearing his throat. “You need me.” 

“Your satchel with the letter for your governor is right here, still in the raft. I could have made do.” 

“They would have not let you even _see_ the governor without me.” George hissed. He attempted to stand, his shaky legs barely holding up his weight. The pole that he had left on the raft was now in his hands, and George hesitantly put it in the water, looking to Gist in approval to keep moving. 

His hands shook the entire way to the other side of the bank, the cold finally settling into his bones. George would need to make a fire if he was to survive the night. 

Once the raft hit the riverbank on the island in the middle of the river, George immediately sighed in content, throwing his pole in the direction of the trees. 

“Don’t get too excited now,” Gist mumbled, reaching towards a stray branch to pull the edge of the logs securely onto the bank so they could both get off the platform without issue. 

Once Gist had his feet on land, George was following him without delay, shuffling his way across his end of the raft, and slumming his entire body weight onto the bank. 

“Oh, sweet God,” He heaved, the cold clothes weighing impossibly heavier on his shoulders, making him shiver. “I am going to freeze to death.” 

“Wonder who’s fucking fault _that_ is.” Gist dropped the wooden pole into the dirt, walking into the trees. “I’ll start a fucking fire so you don’t _die,_ ‘cause we all know how _horrid_ that would be.” 

George heard _a world without George fucking Washington_ leave Gist’s mouth before he was gone, disappearing into the dense brush of forest. The final light of day was finally receding beyond the horizon, making his surroundings dim as he squinted his eyes. 

His legs felt like jelly as he moved towards the nearest tree. George’s hand ached as he grabbed the trunk of the tree, attempting to hold himself upward as the cold really began to seep into him. 

The cold of the river was nothing like this. His clothes felt way too heavy to possibly move, and considering that they were all wet with the temperature in the air well below freezing, his clothes were soon to stiffen up as well, framing his entire body with ice cloth. 

“Shit,” George gritted his teeth, shedding his overcoat to the ground at his feet. He could hear rustling a short distance in front of him; surely Gist, trying to start that fire he had mentioned. He could hear the strike of a flint; just the sound made George feel warmer on the inside already. 

“George!” He heard Gist’s muffled voice from within the brush. “Get your frozen ass over here, I started the fire!” 

He felt his head rush as he looked up towards the other man’s voice, feeling a glimmer of hope that he would no longer freeze to death on an island in the middle of a river at the break of night. 

Somehow, George managed to get his legs to work long enough so he could make it to the ground that has been cleared by Gist’s skilled hands. The fire was small, but was growing bigger due to the dry wood that has been placed within the heart of the starting flame. 

“How did you manage to find dry wood?” George almost let his throat close up at the words; the cold hurt his lungs as if they were burning from the inside out. 

“It’s called ‘survival instincts.’ Perhaps you should get some.” Gist’s face was beginning to be lit by the fire, his eyes focused on the flame as he fed more smaller branches into the pit in the ground. 

They were quiet for a few moments. The two men watched the fire intently, as if it would whisper secrets to them in the dead of night; a philosopher to the young, and to the old. 

It didn’t surprise George that Gist would break the silence with the question of the night. 

“What the hell happened to you out there, boy?” He hissed. George rubbed his palms together to rid the anxiety that he suddenly felt within his chest. 

“I do not remember, exactly.” He reached out towards the flame, as if it would help him. “I just felt cold, it had gotten dark, and I could no longer breathe. I swam towards the surface and I had hardly heard you calling my name before I had come to.” 

“That explains it. I had thought you drowned.” 

“Much to your dismay,” George sneered at the man across from him. “I did not.” 

A lull in the conversation caused him to really feel the chill around him. His spine tickled as his arms began to shake. 

“I don’t want you to _drown,_ ” Gist said, abruptly. “I do care about your bastard ass, even if you do not want yourself to live.”

_Bastard._ There was that word again. 

It was not the first time that George had been called this, even if it had been just in passing conversation. He was the son of a second wife, and even rumors that his wife had been Augustus’ mistress, so the word had not bothered him to an extent that his stomach would curl. 

And yet, with Gist sitting in front of him, fire grazing his face and smoke rising up into the air, calling him a _bastard;_ it hurt George. It did make his stomach curl, even for a moment. He did not even know the extent of why; the word just seemed to awful for Gist to have said to him. 

“I am not a bastard.” He decided to say, pulling his hand away from the fire. “My mother was married to my father before I had been conceived. They had never met before my father’s first wife.” 

“High society of Virginia would say otherwise.” 

“And what do you know of Virginia high society? You’re a drunk from the Jersey, coming from nothing.” George hissed, teeth clattering together. “In case you had forgotten, I am Virginia high society.” 

“Look where that got you.” Gist motioned to their surroundings. “Stuck in the woods with some drunk, chattering and stuttering like a child.” 

That shut George up for a long minute. 

“You learn things, when you are a simple minded drunk from Jersey,” Gist scoffed at George’s silence, letting himself relax into the conversation. “I am older than you, boy. I’ve been around the cobblestone street once or twice. All this ‘high society’ shit you keep talking? It doesn't mean anything around here.” 

George decided not to respond as he felt the fire grow in front of him. 

The fire still couldn’t warm him, his clothes soaking wet and draping his shaking form. It had gotten darker around them, to the extent that their little clearing in the island forest was now surrounded in darkness from the impending night. George heard an owl somewhere far off into the trees, settling in the quiet. 

“Are you still cold?” Gist asked, dropping the act. 

“It is fine.” 

“I can see your fingers trembling” Gist deadpanned. 

“As if it matters.” George clamped up his jaw so he would not make it audible that his body was still being tortured by the weather. 

“Come here.” 

George looked up at Gist from his lap, assuming that the remark was a joke. His eyes grazed the structure of the other man’s face, expecting a smile or even a small smirk playing on the edges of the man’s face, but instead was met with the face of a serious expression. 

“Excuse me?” 

“I said, come here, boy.” Gist shuffled to the side so that the room on his fur pelt that had been placed on the frozen ground. “You were right, earlier. I cannot even see the governor without you, and letting you die is a waste.” 

George hesitated. 

“Do you think I will hurt you?” Gist asked, reaching inside his coat and taking out two knives, perfectly sharp, reflecting the light of the fire off of them. 

Gist threw the knives aside into the satchel sitting a few feet away. 

“I assure you, I will not. I just admitted my use of you. George fucking Washington is no use to me dead.” 

George bit back a retort, but kept his shivering mouth shut. He hadn’t intended being close to Gist, but if it was to prevent him from freezing to death, then he would have no choice but to comply. 

He just hadn’t known it would be this _awkward._

It took him a hard minute to stand, his knees trying to support his shaking form, before he actually could walk over to the other side of the fire, where Gist looked up to him expectantly. George could only look downward as Gist shifted to lay down on the ground, facing the fire, opening his arms so the younger of the two men could be closer to the beacon of warmth. 

It had taken him another minute to get down on the ground to lay himself fully on the pelt. 

His body froze up at the contact of Gist’s hand on his shoulder. 

“I am going to hold you now,” He said in George’s ear, calm and comforting, distracting him from what was to come. His voice was rough from the cold, and he could even feel slightly guilty for what was about to happen. 

Gist slipped his left arm up and under George’s, feeling up his abdomen and chest before settling his hand right above his heart. Shivers coated his body as the curious hand finally settled outwardly, and Gist scooted closer so George’s entire backside had been covered by the older man. 

George kept staring at the crackling fire in front of his face, which coated his entire front form with warmth. Slowly, he felt his jaw unclench due to the newfound feeling of content, as his clothes were beginning to dry as well. 

“Does this feel...better?” Gist asked, seemingly unphased by the entire situation. 

“Yes.” George could only answer as his eyes began to slip closed. “This feels oddly nice.” 

“I am glad.” Gist still seemed to be wide awake; his voice was sharp and alert, unlike George, who knew that his voice sounded slurred and muted. 

The silence was less pregnant now; the situation had dissolved quickly, much to George’s surprise. The tension in his shoulder fizzled into he was relaxed and pliant in Gist’s arms, who held him tightly as the cold slowly left his body.

“Sleep, boy.” Gist grumbled, and the last thing that George could remember before slipping into unconsciousness was Gist’s fingers, slowly undoing the front buttons of his own shirt, then slipping inside to seed themselves on top of George’s beating heart. 

-

When George awoke, he immediately wished he hadn’t. 

At first, nothing seemed amiss to him. The fire had long gone out; the front of George’s body was mostly cold, but not as excruciating as the night previous. His clothes must have dried. His eyes seemed to be sealed shut from the cold, however, and he had no real reason to open them just yet. 

His right arm seemed to be numb under his weight, but when he shifted to move his arm out from under him, he felt that Gist was still behind him, pressed flush to his entire backside. 

George still didn’t bother to open his eyes, but stopped trying to move under the other man’s weight of his arm over his middle. Gist’s hand was still on his bare chest, shuffled in between the hem of the front of the shirt, which must have been unbuttoned all night. 

The last thing he had noticed was the uncomfortable tightness in his trousers. 

It had gotten less of an issue recently; but George was still a young man, he would promptly respond to all physical touches as if they would prelude to something more. He just hadn’t realized that it would happen within the arms of another _man._

George tried to wish it away. He had no idea how long he must have laid there, his eyes still sealed shut, wishing for the erection in his trousers to go away. It had to be multiple minutes, and nothing had changed, making George grit his teeth in annoyance. 

He then decided it was time to officially get up. George tried to move his right arm out from under him again, but then Gist began to stir, pulling the younger man closer to his chest and tightening his hold. 

“Gist.” George grunted, trying to wake the other man up fully. “I need to wake.” 

“You are awake, bastard.” Gist’s voice was rougher than usual, which George had been used to, but it sounded different to him somehow. 

“I need to...relieve myself.” Wash all George could say without giving too much away. He hoped Gist would ask no more questions. Once again, George was disappointed. 

“Hm.” Gist tightened his hold more, his bare hand spreading out among George’s chest. “To do what, exactly?” 

George hesitated. They were both men, Gist _had_ to understand. 

“I need to,” he stopped, contemplating the wording. “Temp the fireplace.” 

Gist stayed silent. 

George opened his eyes with great struggle; they were sealed shut from the cold. Once they were open fully, his eyes began to focus on the empty space in front of him that belonged to the fire just hours ago. The sun had barely risen; only a faint light coated the entire forest around him. 

“Gist,” George tried to turn over, but was held in place. “Let me wake.” 

“Temp the fireplace, aye?” Gist had a hidden smirk within his tone, and George felt his stomach turn. “Is it that pressing?” 

He rolled his eyes and decided to stay put, if the older man was going to be like that. 

That was the plan, at least. 

Gist had shifted behind him, pressing his weight into George’s back. He then slipped his hand out of the younger man’s coat, where it then traveled lower to George’s abdomen. 

“I wonder what Virginia high society would think of _this._ ” Gist mused, settling the palm of his hand right on top of George’s lower belly. 

“What are you getting at?” He asked, eyes beginning to widen in both shock and anticipation. 

“What I am getting at,” Gist moved so that his mouth was right next to George’s ear, breathing into the shell of it. “Why not break the rules? Break away from your _high society_ and sink down to _me_.” 

At the last word, Gist sunk his hand impossible lower, gripping George’s cock fully through his trousers with no warning. It made him grunt, feeling a surge of pleasure rushing up his spine and causing him to shiver at the feeling. Gist, noticing the reaction, started to rub his hand in a circular motion, persisting the situation further. 

“Christ.” George whispered, letting his head shift backward so he could be closer to Gist. The older man, still gripping his cock, began to breathe harder in George’s ear, before going as far as to dart his tongue out and graze it along the shell of his ear. It made George moan in surprise; he truly didn’t know anything could feel this good. 

He hadn’t exactly experimented with others, unlike his peers within the Virginia army. They all had their cheap whores from down the street, the secret love affairs of married women, the younger women of wealthy men who they had bedded in the dead of night. George hadn’t bothered with those pleasures; there was one girl from when he was fourteen, who he had kissed quickly on the lips before running into the forest. A petty dare from his friends. 

However, _this_ was an extremely different situation. No person had ever touched George’s cock before, and he rarely had even done so himself, only on one such rare occasion that it hadn’t disappeared before the day could break. But here George was, Gist’s hand on him, putting him down at the older man’s mercy. 

It was exhilarating. 

“Let’s see what we have here.” Gist mumbled, stopping the motion of his tongue against George’s ear. He slipped his hands under the waistband of the younger man’s trousers, immediately making him shiver due to the coldness of his hands. 

“S-shit,” George mumbled, shivers immediately coating his body at the gold fingers now closing around the head of his cock. 

“What?” Gist asked, beginning to stroke. “Feel too good for your little prick to handle?” 

“No, you blithering idiot, your hands are cold.” 

“Ah,” Gist stopped moving, causing George to hiss at the loss of toe curling pleasure. “A little _snippy_ now, are we?” 

“ _Bastard!_ ” George hissed, bucking his hips upward so he could feel any kind of friction against Gist’s hand, who still had it slipped right next to his flushed cock, still confined to his trousers. 

“You want this?” Gist groaned into George’s ear, who could only promptly moan as a response, no longer paying attention to the wrongness of it all. 

“Here you go, boy,” Gist wrapped his hand around George’s cock again, properly this time around. He bit his tongue at the pressure, causing his toes to curl up at the pleasure surging his body. 

Gist started to get a rhythm; as best he could with the angle he was working with, at least. It mattered little to George, for the rough, calloused hands rubbing along his dick within his breeches felt a little too much for him to properly process. At a particular twist of Gist’s hand, George jerked his hips, desperate for more of the same movement. 

“That was a good spot, ain’t it?” Gist’s breathing was faster now, matching George’s own breath within his chest as his hand began to stroke faster; well, he considered, as fast as the other man could still confined to his trousers. 

Gist made a move to pull George’s cock out, frustrated by the confinement, but the younger man made a move to stop him. 

“Do not,” was all he offered in a reply. 

“Self conscious are we?” 

When George did not offer a verbal reply, Gist continued to jerk him off, before he began to feel a heat coiling in his lower abdomen. 

He was getting close. 

George bit down hard into his lip, attempting not to make too much noise at the pure _pleasure_ he was feeling, swelling up into his brain. He no longer felt cold, he no longer worried about the route back to Virginia, or even what Gist had called his _high society_ ; his family, waiting for him back at Mount Vernon. 

All that mattered was his short-coming breath and that desperate need to _release._

“Getting close, eh boy?” Gist asked, and George wanted to punch that smirk right off of his lips. “Go on then.” 

Gist sped up his movements impossibly faster, twisting his hand upward with every stroke now; something that George didn’t bother to think about the logistics of. He only focused on the sweet friction that the older man’s hand provided, dragging him closer and closer to what was sure to be a flimsy end. 

“Come _on boy,_ sink down to me, sink down to me, sink down to me-”

That was what pushed George off of the edge. Suddenly he found himself lurching forward, but Gist’s other arm managed to anticipate the move and held him still, close to the older man’s chest. He felt his spine practically alight with pleasure, such as a fire lighting a match, and then the inside of his pants felt warm as he came into them. 

“Oh, _shit_ ,” Gist groaned, immediately taking his hand out of the small pocket he had made within George’s trousers. “I forgot how disgusting this shit is.” 

“Have you never…” George trailed off, too embarrassed to ask. 

“No, you bastard.” Gist detached himself from George so quickly he wondered if he had dreamt it all. 

“Where are you going?” He asked, watching the older man stretch his upper arms, before heading in the direction of the water where the stream could be heard, breaking the ice that must have formed overnight. 

“To clean off!” 

George narrowed his eyes at the distance, watching the man disappear, but turned so he lay on his back, covering the entire bearskin leather they had laid on the ground previous. He could see his calming breath blow wisps of air just in front of his face, disappearing only a few inches in front of him. 

Just like the previous moments. They had disappeared in front of his very eyes. 

His eyes shifted focus away from his visible breath into the tree line just above his head, covering the cloudy sky. George closed his eyes for a moment, taking in the cold air into his lungs, before releasing it, letting go the memories of the entire morning. 

Something cold hit the side of his cheek; George opened his eyes to find out that it had begun to snow. 

The new day had begun. 

-

The streets of Williamsburg had been particularly busy that morning that they had arrived. Soldiers were seen bustling around, holding guns closely to their chests, as if war could be called at any moment; George could not blame them. Dinwiddie had not even seen the letter that he had been harboring the past few months. 

The crowd only got larger as they neared the large townhouse, looming above the buildings around it, where the governor was sure to be at this time of the morning.

“Busy day.” Gist grumbled to his left, to which George rolled his eyes. 

“It is always like this.” 

“I have yet to see it in any other colony.” 

“Virginia is the heartland,” George held out his hand to the widespread crowd in front of the pair, pointing out the soldiers, the merchants, the sailors, the whores, the wives, the children, all milling about. “It is the soul of these colonies. It has always been this way.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Gist shoved past George rather roughly. “Heard it all before. Actin’ as if any other colony doesn’t exist.” 

“Where are you going?” George furrowed his brow at the older man, who stopped at the question, before turning. 

“To the nearest tavern. Surely you could deliver the letter yourself?” 

“You do not wish to see Dinwiddie?” George asked, perplexed. He had thought that is what Gist’s goal was from the beginning; to get inside high society, so he could find a better path within the colonies. 

“No point,” Gist smirked. “Got a drink and a bed waiting up for me.” 

Gist turned once more, and George tried to call out after him; hand outstretched, mouth open, attempting to say something, before the older man had cut him off, seemingly knowing what the younger Major was going to ask. 

“You’ll see me again, Washington. Hopefully those shits up at the top will have stopped caring about you by then.” 

And with that, Gist disappeared into the crowd, leaving behind no trace.

George let out a breath and tried to follow the hat that Gist was wearing through the crowd, but found no luck; the man was truly gone. 

The letter in his hands seemed to weigh impossibly more than it had ever felt this entire journey through the entire Ohio country. 

But alas, George Washington shook his head, before descending up the steps into the townhouse, praying his work would finally, _finally,_ prove himself worthy. 

Worthy enough not to be a bastard. Worthy enough for _high society._


End file.
